


theory of relativity

by doublelead



Category: THE iDOLM@STER: SideM
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Childhood, Family, Gen, Growing Up, Pre-Canon, Slice of Life, background JiroRui
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-08 22:20:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17394740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doublelead/pseuds/doublelead
Summary: Two centimetres, to Michio, is the difference between Sumoto and Kobe. Michio’s eighteenth spring is his sister's fourth. His high school graduation ceremony falls a perfect two months before her third birthday.Or, alternatively, the time dilation within those two centimetres, Michio, an observer, and the growth of the people around him, throughout the years.





	theory of relativity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [makkuru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/makkuru/gifts).



> I'm honestly still a little reluctant about de-anoning this from the 2018 Secret Santa Exchange but, like, I didn't write anything for Michio's birthday and I feel _terrible_ , so uh, here I am. 
> 
> Hello.
> 
> Happy Michio Day.
> 
> Please remember to love your Michio today.

**time dilation**   _n. (Phys)_  a slowing of time in accordance with the theory of relativity that occurs in a system in motion relative to an outside observer and that becomes apparent especially as the speed of the system approaches that of light

 

* * *

 

 

 

_0._

  
  
It’s well into the midst of spring, when he comes home to only his grandfather’s sandals neatly lined together at the genkan. Michio tilts his head, wonders where everyone might be. A quick look at the whiteboard over the cabinet doesn’t give him much of an answer, either.  
  
“Grandpa?” He calls out into the hall, toeing his shoes off as he steps inside.  
  
None of the lamps are switched on – though, there shouldn’t be any reason that they would be. It’s still light out, daytime stretching longer past the afternoon as the warm air starts to settle. He doesn’t hear much more than the odd stray drops of water from the kitchen tap, wanders past the shouji doors into the living room to the turned off television.  
  
He patters about, just slightly, a spot on the tatami flooring under his school socks. He catches a glimpse of his grandfather’s tea tray, the kohiki teapot he had made last summer set out by the open shutters in the engawa.  
  
“Grandpa, are you there?” Michio tries again.  
  
“Ah, Michio! I didn’t hear you come in! Good timing!” His grandfather’s smile is like sunshine pouring in, popping his head in from under the shadow of the overhang as he waves him over.  
  
Michio clutches the strap of his messenger bag tight, crosses the seven, eight steps it takes for him to stand at the edge of his porch.  
  
“They’ll be home in just about a minute!” There’s an underline of a hum in his voice, a clear rhythm mirrored in the idle swing of his legs, the tip of his toes a few centimetres off the ground.  
  
“Did everyone have plans today?” Michio asks.  
  
“Oh, we didn’t tell you? I was fairly sure Grandma called your school...” He trails off, looking up at Michio, thumbs the cup of tea he holds over his lap. “Isn’t that why you’re home?”  
  
_Ah,_ it must have been when he had already left, then. “Club activities hasn’t fully started yet. I had no reason to loiter after class.”  
  
He hears the thrum of his family car come to a stop, at the side of the road just a little down hill. His mother’s voice follows right after, behind their backyard fence, under an overlay of clicks and rustles. “Grandpa? Are you out back?”  
  
“Michio’s already here, too!” His grandfather replies.  
  
“Oh, my, that’s perfect!” she says. Michio hears her footsteps come closer, watches the way she nudges the wooden gates open, careful, with her shoulder, even as she very visibly tries to hold herself back from skipping the rest of the walk in.  
  
“Michio-kun.” He meets her halfway, down the stepping stone, past the slippers he doesn’t think to wear, his feet against the gravel of their walkway. “I have someone I want to introduce to you.”  
  
In the spring of his first year, Michio’s first meeting with his little sister comes with his grandmother’s bed of irises in full bloom. She’s smaller than he had imagined – or perhaps, it may just be that she seems that way, wrapped in the blue cotton blanket his grandmother had been working on all winter.  
  
“You know, Grandma knitted this with a name already in mind! She didn’t even tell me until today!” his mother laughs. “I hope you’ll take good care of her from now on, Oniichan.”  
  
Her voice is gentle, softer than Michio has ever heard her. He looks up, for a moment, at his mother’s bright, closed-eyed grin, and then back down, tracing the faint wisps of his sister’s hair.  
  
It’s a familiar shade, he notices – most likely that it will curl in the same way, too. He huffs, a tiny laugh of his own. She’s going to have the same problem as he does growing up, each morning spent taming tangles in the mirror.

 

* * *

 

His fifteenth summer is spent with Shouko’s first – early mornings catching sunlight at the porch, watching his grandmother tend to the hydrangeas in the garden.  
  
He sits with his knees to his chest, one hand always over the edge of Shouko’s blanket by his hip.  
  
“Are you not going out with your friends, Michio-kun?” Grandma asks.  
  
“I’m fine,” he replies. Summers aren’t quite as busy, compared to the days in middle school spent in the track and field club. It’s just him and a few third years now, a small science club in a school that excels in its sports programmes.  
  
Michio is actually a bit worried that he’d be the only member left, for his last two years.  
  
“ _Hmm,_ that isn’t quite the answer I was looking for, I think.” Grandma holds up the watering can in her hands. The trickle of water stops, stray droplets rounding the edge of the spout. She turns back to him, a look that says she knows exactly what he would have said, otherwise.  
  
“I don’t have much time with her.” There’s a stagger in his breath. “Three years isn’t enough for her to remember much about me.”  
  
“You talk like you’ll fling yourself to Sapporo after graduation!” Grandma laughs, shaking her head as she returns to her flowers. “Unless, you’re not planning on visiting?”  
  
Michio stays quiet, not quite sure what to say.  
  
“Honestly.” Setting the watering can down on to the ground, she sighs, picks up the garden shears she had left next to it. “I don’t know what you’re fussing over in that big brain of yours, but no grandson of mine should ever feel like he isn’t worthy of coming home!”  
  
‘ _It isn’t that,’_ he keeps to himself, if only because he wouldn’t know how to continue.  
  
“Kobe is only two hours away! If it were up to me, I’d have you over every weekend.”  
  
Michio jolts forward, nearly fumbles, waving his hands around, flustered at the thought of the bus fare his family would have to pay for. He never planned to take on a part time job that would accommodate the commute, and he doesn’t think his degree would let him in the first place, either.  
  
“ _Ah―_ ” He flinches, freezes, when he feels the tip of his fingers knock against the side of Shouko’s foot.  
  
_He wants to, really, but―_  
  
“I never said that I wouldn’t visit,” Michio says, after a while, perhaps, a little ashamed of himself.  
  
_He had known from the start, that it would_ _have to_ _come to this._  
  
“I guess you’re right after all, in a way.” His grandmother doesn’t turn to look at him. She proceeds, as usual, pruning the leaves on the shrubbery lined against the wall. “You’ll be fine.”

 

* * *

 

_2._

  
  
“I’ll be fine,” he mutters.  
  
Michio is already in his winter gakuran again, nearing the end of the October of Shouko’s third autumn. He stops right at the gate to her preschool building, plays with the bag strap over his shoulder, nods in greeting, as he sees the teacher perk up the moment she notices him.  
  
They’re huddled together by the wall under Shouko’s classroom window, tending to one pot in a row of what he assumes are her class’ gardening project.  
  
Tulips, most likely, considering the season.  
  
“Ah, Shouko-chan, your older brother’s here to pick you up!” she says, patting Shouko on her shoulder.  
  
“Niicha!” Shouko shouts, grinning wide and toothy, proud to show him both of her dirt-stained hands. She nearly stumbles standing up, turning to run towards him before quickly changing course for the water troughs at the other end of the yard.  
  
Michio lets out a chuckle, realising that she must have remembered that she needs to wash her hands first. Standing on the tip of her toes, her bright yellow hat starts to slide off the back of her head, brushing the back collar of her light blue uniform coat.  
  
He hears her hum, waiting for her teacher to come and turn the tap for her, slightly out of reach.  
  
“If anything, you’ll be fine, at least.” Michio’s expression softens, when he feels Shouko barrelling herself against the side of his leg. He thinks that it might have been less a hug and more that she just used his trousers as a drying towel, but he crouches anyway, down to her eye level as he repositions her hat. “Do you feel like croquettes today? Kiyose-san should have a fresh batch around this time.”  
  
“Croquettes!” Shouko’s answer is an enthusiastic echo of his offer, her hands thrown up high above her head before she brings them down in front of her, tugging at his sleeves.

 

* * *

 

Shouko has grown a little over the past three months, he feels.  
  
It isn’t much – in actual metric measurements, in how much more taller she’ll get over the years, in the idle thoughts he spends watching the top of her yellow hat bob around, as she walks beside him.  
  
Michio doesn’t remember being able to see part of her face from under the brim, the tips of her ears red from the cold. Sumoto winters aren’t quite as cold, compared to the rest of Hyougo, but Shouko would be happy nonetheless, when Grandma finishes making her a new pair of earmuffs.  
  
Two centimetres isn’t a lot.  
  
He could still see the grey of the pavement despite the light snow shower.  
  
Shouko is still not much taller than his hip.  
  
“ _Ah,_ Michio-kun! Shou-chan!”  
  
A car drives past, down the middle of the road just as they stop to look. Turning towards the voice finds them with Kiyose-san, right across from where they are, waving at them through her shop window.  
  
“Come over for a bit!” she says. “I’ve set aside some fresh ones for you two!”  
  
Past the bridge by the Hidono River, the Kiyose family mainly runs a butcher’s, a small window off to the side for where they would sell croquettes and menchi katsu by the piece. Michio looks both ways before jogging by, careful to keep his hold firm around Shouko’s hand as he gently leads her over.  
  
“You must be so cold!” He can’t really comment on the contrary, his glasses now fogged, this close to the warmth emanating from inside the shop. “Here, take these for the road!”  
  
To be completely frank he can’t tell if he’s seeing steam clouds roll out from between the curtains or if it’s just the overlay of white on his lenses.  
  
Approximating through vague outlines and faded colours, Michio reaches out to accept two parchment-lined pieces of menchi katsu – hopefully without looking too much like he couldn’t see – and passes one down to Shouko next to him.  
  
“What do we say?” he prompts, before letting his sister fully hold on to it.  
  
“Thank you very much!” Shouko chimes cheerfully.  
  
“Thank you, Kiyose-san. You really didn’t have to,” Michio says as well, afterwards, with a slight bow of his head.  
  
“Oh, nonsense!” Kiyose-san brushes him off. “Think of it as a reward for picking your sister up everyday! Don’t you have entrance exams coming up, Michio-kun?”  
  
“I’ve studied enough in advance that I don’t need to sacrifice time to cram.” Michio hesitates, stops himself from biting at his bottom lip, toys with the fold along the inside of his scarf. He continues, quieter, as he pats Shouko’s head over the material of her hat. “It’s the least I could do for her.”

The tips of his fingers are cold on his neck.  
  
“ _Wow!_ Aren’t you a lucky one, Shou-chan?” Kiyose-san leans out over the counter to smile at her, but at the sight of Shouko recoiling after attempting a first bite, quickly shoots a hand out to fuss over her instead. “Be careful now, it’s hot!”  
  
“Though,” she begins to say, slowly, picking up from where they had left off, looks up at Michio as she straightens up. The tug on the corner of her mouth is more strained now, resigned. “It’s going to be lonely without both of you coming through here everyday.”

“I hope that at least, it wouldn’t be the case for her,” is all Michio has in response. “Thank you again, Kiyose-san. See you tomorrow.”

The rest of their uphill walk is filled with the breath they blow through bites of too-hot menchi katsu, air in visible wisps, back onto their faces.   
  
“Niicha, your cheeks are red!” Shouko’s smile is all is teeth as she laughs.  
  
“Yours is too,” Michio says in return. “And so is your nose.”

It keeps them warm, under the flickering street lamps above their heads, the short distance left along the winding roads in the shortened daylight. Surely around this time, Grandma has a pot of tonjiru already simmering over the stove top. That’s definitely something to look forward to, too, for when they get to their door, the smell of home wafting out past the genkan to the cobblestone footpath.

 

* * *

 

Michio sees his photo looking back at him, four by six, eyes half-closed in a botched snap his school never bothered to retake. Then, skimming through, in red, an official seal stamped over his name.  
  
He rereads the header again to make sure.  
  
‘ _Letter of Acceptance,’_  
  
Once, twice, and he comes back, to where he had left off.  
  
‘ _Kobe National University, Faculty of Science, Mathematics Department,’_  
  
‘ _Congratulations, applicant Hazama Michio, Hyogo Prefectural Sumoto High School,’_  
  
‘ _Please proceed with the enrolment procedures before the date stated below.’_

 

* * *

 

They walk home together today, too, along the Chigusa River, past her school gates just as they would every other day, for the past year.  
  
Her hands are still far too small to hold on to anything more than two of his fingers. Her humming still idle, a tune that might not have been exactly the one they had taught her at school. His scarf is the same plain navy knit he had worn since the beginning of the November, the same one from one winter previous, and even some more winters back, before he had begun counting seasons.  
  
Michio is sure, that Shouko wouldn’t think much of it.  
  
She shouldn’t have any reason to, when three months is only an eighth of what she had experienced up until this point.  
  
He can’t help but wonder – irrationally so, well aware of the inequivalence between the units compared, the indefinite nature of each quantity – firstly, how his own experiences within the past three months correspond to hers. Secondly, if those three months passes at the same speed, between the two of them.  
  
And, thirdly, how much significance her two centimetres really holds, in terms of her own three months.  
  
To Michio, two centimetres is a difference within a tiptoe, whether or not Shouko could reach his elbow tugging at his sleeves. Two centimetres the gap between the rim of a pot and Shouko’s name on labelling paper written in crayon, the length of a tulip bud covered in its sepal, where she had left it as a seed before autumn had ended.  
  
Two centimetres is a fourth of the length of the flower corsage pinned to his breast pocket, a sixtieth of the distance their parents have in front them, some steps away.  
  
Two centimetres, to Michio, is the difference between Sumoto and Kobe.  
  
Michio’s eighteenth spring is Shouko’s fourth. His high school graduation ceremony falls a perfect two months before her third birthday.

 

* * *

 

“When are you coming back?”  
  
Michio fiddles with the strap of his backpack, runs his fingers down the underside, over and across to the handle of his suitcase. He never did decide on how to best answer her question. Looking up to the roof of the bus stop, off to the side at the passengers ahead of him in the queue, finds him mulling over the same things he had already gone through in his head over breakfast, at the mirror after he woke up that morning, in the bath the previous night, repeatedly, in the margins of his notes, over the course of the year.  
  
“I don’t know,” he settles for, in the end. It’s nowhere near to what he actually wanted to say. The fact that it isn’t a lie is the most that he could manage. “I don’t think it would be anytime soon. I’m sorry.”  
  
But, at this point, he really doesn’t think that there could have been anything else.  
  
“Will you come home at all?”  
  
This, on the other hand, was a question Michio had always been ready for.  
  
“Definitely.”  
  
Shouko lets go of her hold on their mother’s skirt, gradually, as she takes the few steps forwards, toward him. She stops, when the toes of her shoes meet his, brushing against the other.  
  
“Promise?” she asks. She doesn’t look up, starts tugging on his trousers.  
  
“Yeah,” like it’s a definitive, clockwork, just as it is, his hand tousling through her hair. “And if Mum says yes, you can come and visit, too.”  
  
Michio doesn’t how his smile must have looked right now, from where she stands in front of him. If three years isn’t enough for her to remember much, then he ponders the possibility that one of her oldest memories would be of the morning crowd at the bus terminal, the driver calling for the last of his passengers bound for Sannomiya.  
  
It would be nice, if he could hope, that at least, _at least,_ if nothing else, Shouko remembers looking up at her big brother, the brightest Michio has seen her so far.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

_18._

  
  
“I’m home.”  
  
His greeting disappears into the dark, the space of his quiet 1R room the only reply he gets in return. He has a convenience store bag in one hand, rustling by his hip. The sound of him shuffling his shoes off at his genkan is louder than what he’s familiar with.  
  
Turning the lights on casts a light over the few boxes he has yet to unpack.  
  
He’s used to his grandfather’s favourite quiz show filtering through the living room, his grandmother’s scurrying footsteps in the kitchen, his mother tapping on the back of her pencil as she plans their household accounts for the coming month – enough white noise to drown out the scrape of his slippers across the lacquered wood.  
  
Michio sits on his futon, sets his dinner down, on the low folding table that came with the room. He wonders, off-hand, if he should buy a floor chair, or a cushion at the very least.  
  
Sighing deep, a long draw of breath, he quivers, in exhale, leaning his back against the wall. He looks out the full-length window to his right, upwards, to the space between his balcony, the ridge in the overhang, the rusted railings.  
  
It’s dark out.  
  
_Of course it is._  
  
Past seven-thirty on an April evening, daylight have yet to begin stretching late into the hours.

 

* * *

 

Michio frowns at the quarter-full tupperware of tonjiru in his freezer. After all of the trouble he’s gone, holding back each portion so that it’d last for longer, he is finally down to having only enough for one more serving.  
  
Forcing it into two meals would be sad, even for him. Two pieces of carrots, half a slice of daikon, and a piece of cubed pork each is not a line that he’s willing to cross anytime soon. There are limits to being an unfortunate university student, and sacrificing his daily nutrition intake for the sake of eating his grandmother’s cooking for one extra day is firmly well beyond that threshold.  
  
Maybe he’ll go take a walk.  
  
It’s already Golden Week, two weeks into the first semester, and he hasn’t dedicated time to explore the area.  
  
_Wasn’t there a phone booth halfway down hill to the grocery store?_  
  
Michio grabs a small notepad from his table on his way to the genkan, grabs his lightweight jacket from the hook behind the door as he puts on his shoes.  
  
He remembers where it is, he thinks. It’s a good chance as any to call home. Ask Grandma for her tonjiru recipe, among other things. He already misses his family – _a lot,_ with very little intention to deny that fact. But more importantly, he’s actually pretty excited to ease his way into his first cooking venture.

 

* * *

 

“Do you need us to send you onions?”  
  
Michio chuckles, a little sheepishly, scratching the side of his cheek. He’s being silly, he realises – it’s not like his mother is right there in front of him, that he needs to look away, turn to the side and hide his embarrassment.  
  
“I think I’ll practice making Grandma’s tonjiru some more first, before I waste any good onions.”  
  
It’s summer, outside of the glass walls of the phone booth. Midday, bright as it would have been in Awajishima, and just as sweltering as he remembers it to be, as well. He starts fiddling with his hat, feels his sweat-damp hair, matted down against his temple, as he coils his fingers along the curled ends.  
  
Hearing his mother’s voice reminds him that usually, around this time of year, she would have sat him down in front of the kitchen sink for a haircut.  
  
Michio’s hair is near uncontrollable in the humidity – hence, the Orix Buffaloes baseball cap – but he might be due an actual, proper trim either way, other than just to decrease volume.  
  
“Do you think it’s possible to cut your own hair?” he murmurs, before he could quite catch himself.  
  
“What are you saying!” His mother laughs, mirth, _absolute amusement_ _at his expense_ , clear even through the static. “That’s definitely something! Especially when you don’t even know how to cook yet!”  
  
_Well,_ she has a very valid point. Michio couldn’t even muster the thought to feel offended on any level.  
  
“Take it easy, Michio-kun,” she says, patient, this time. “Rushing in to try new things is fine and all, but experience will come to you over time.”  
  
Michio feels like he’s in his early teens again, night light seeping through the gap below his door, a warm cup of tea over his lap, squinting, without his glasses, an attempt at pretending to be asleep that didn’t go uncaught, as he’s scolded for pushing himself too far.  
  
He moves to toy with the phone cord instead, shifting his gaze down to his feet.  
  
“That wasn’t exactly my intention,” he half-heartedly protests.  
  
“Not consciously, perhaps, but we both know how you get.”  
  
Across the street from the Rokko Station building, Michio stands away from the shade of the roof, or trees lining the pavement. In some ways, he’s glad that his mother isn’t here to see him pout.

 

* * *

 

“That’s― _Hmm..._ ” he braves another taste to make sure, takes a sip from the leftover broth in the saucer. “Nope, still unfortunate.”  
  
He had hoped that with autumn just around the corner, the harvest season would finally take mercy on him and his reward his efforts somehow. The half-off pack of sliced pork at the grocery store earlier had felt especially enticing on top of that, calling out to him as if it were a sign.  
  
Perhaps, it was just the false sense of comfort that came with his receipt coming down to a total of five-hundred yen less than his usual spending.  
  
Michio being unable to differentiate between cosmic guidance and his self-inflicted disillusionment aside, it would be a terrible waste to throw the whole pot out. It isn’t often that he would stumble upon the last discounted protein on display.  
  
That must count for _something._  
  
He reluctantly ladles himself a bowl, makes his way across the room to the low table. His grandmother had taught him better than to complain about food, so he will force himself to sit there and be grateful that he didn’t outright burn anything.  
  
“Thank you for the meal,”he mutters.  
  
His grandmother definitely didn’t teach him to read his mail over dinner though, his free hand thumbing through the stack of envelopes he had taken out of his mailbox earlier―  
  
“ _Ah_ ―”  
  
―and for good reason, at that. Michio squeaks in surprise, when he accidentally pokes own his cheek with his chopsticks, instead of properly aiming for his mouth.

 

* * *

 

_21._

  
  
Michio stands there for a while, in front of his open door, staring, his grip lingering around his doorknob.  
  
There’s a puddle of cherry blossoms at his genkan, petals fluttering about, up and around his ankles as he steps inside. He’s careful, light, on his tiptoes, tugging his laces undone, removing his shoes  
  
He breathes, as he lines the heel of his soles against the raise in his floor.  
  
Three years has made the rhythmic progression of the too-loud rustle of his coat, the metallic click of his mailbox, his gloves hitting his table comforting somehow, a prelude, to the whirr of his heater turning on, the fog on his glasses disappearing.  
  
“I’m home,” he says still, a habit he can’t quite stop.  
  
A part of him feels like he shouldn’t be used to this, the very notion unfounded, conflicting every evidence in his surroundings.  
  
His usual seat is his futon, spread out by the window. His usual box of letters is on top of a stack of cardboard boxes he uses as a makeshift bookshelf, separated into two parts: bills and personal mail.  
  
His usual, now, is opening a letter from his family over the low table, carefully loosening the envelope flap.  
  
The day he comes home early from a morning class is the day he receives photo from his grandmother. Shouko’s closed-eyed smile is still cheeky, crinkles at the edges. She stands next to the school gates with their parents, a new skirt, a new coat, her red leather backpack bigger than she is.  
  
_Sumoto Third Public Primary School Entrance Ceremony,_ the sign next to them reads, neat, in calligraphic font.

 

* * *

  

_26._

  
  
Michio quickens his pace, up the station stairs and round the street corner of the Sannomiya bus terminal. He thinks he might have seen a glimpse of the Awajishima Expressway make the turn, right when he had reached the bottom rung.  
  
If his calculations are correct, then, thankfully, he shouldn’t be running _too_ late. Right on time, even, maybe, if he’s lucky.  
  
To which he unfortunately isn’t.  
  
Either that or he had overestimated his own athleticism. Michio skids some scant few metres as he makes the turn into the terminal building, catches sight of Shouko at a distance, grey pigtails under an Orix Buffaloes baseball cap.  
  
She’s waiting under the bus stop sign, at the end of the sixth boarding point, a little ways away from the crowd, taking care not to block the way for the rest of the passengers still alighting.  
  
Her knuckles are white – he first notices, still jogging past the fourth, the fifth – a tight grip on the straps of a backpack much too large for her.  
  
She’s fidgeting, scuffing the sides of her shoes together, eyes flitting about, not knowing where to look, trying not to look at anything in particular at the same time.  
  
“Oniichan!” she brightens when she sees him, midway from looking down to her feet, again, after some time spent observing the connective seams in the ceiling.  
If she notices the flyaway strands in hair, or his scarf coming undone, she’s kind enough not to mention either of them.  
  
“Sorry did you wait long?” He pants, barely managing to keep himself from doubling over as he stops right in front of her  
  
“No, you’re good,” in at least one sense of its meaning. “My seat was in front so I got to get off first.”  
  
Michio takes a moment to breathe, shake some life back into his calves. He lets out one final huff, straightens up, and adjusts his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. He was wondering why it had been hard to see.  
  
He thought that it was maybe was all the oxygen not flowing up to his brain while he was running.  
  
“Alright,” he says. “Do you want to go somewhere first? We might as well, since we’re here and all...”  
  
Sannomiya has a lot more interesting things to offer than Rokko does. He isn’t sure what Shouko would like to see first. If the Sannomiya Centre Street and all its shops are too overwhelming right now – for him, too, if he were to be honest – there’s a very cute, very small bird cafe three stations down. The Nunobiki Herb Garden is just another short bus ride away, too.  
  
He holds a hand to his stomach, feels, thankfully, more than he hears it rumble. Food should definitely be their first order of business. It’s nearing eleven in the morning, and brunch is sounding more and more enticing.  
  
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Oniichan, but this,” Shouko says, hopping a little, pulling her bag further up her back. “Is pretty heavy.”  
  
“Ah, yes, of course. Home first it is, then,” Michio fumbles, guiding her out of the terminal building and down the road for the Hankyu station entrance. He pauses, a few steps behind her, scrutinies the way she has to adjust her backpack, every few steps. “Do you want me to carry that for you?”  
  
“It’s fine! I’ve carried heavier,” she bounces it a few times to prove her point. “I should be fine until we get home.”  
  
“If you say so,” Michio says, unconvinced.  
  
He keeps stealing glances at her, every few steps. Worry, mostly, but also a significant part of an itch to do _something._ He watches the end of Shouko’s pigtails brush against the bag’s top handle as they walk.  
  
He curls a hand to his mouth, mulling over his next course of action. He hums, shortly after, nodding to himself.  
  
Reaching out, Michio hooks his fingers under the loop, and pulls, upwards.  
  
They keep walking like this, past a few more store fronts, sharing the weight between the two of them, but most importantly, taking most of it off of Shouko’s shoulder.  
  
“Oniichan?” she begins, serene.  
  
“Hmm?” he replies, just as calmly.  
  
She comes to a halt, an emphasis in her last two steps. Michio follows suit, next to her, in the middle of the pavement, holding on to her bag, still.  
  
Shouko scrunches her face as she jerks forward, harshly, trying to shake off her older brother’s hold.  
  
“It’s hard to walk like this!” she whines.

 

* * *

  

“I won’t suggest convenience store food,” Michio says.  
  
“I don’t mind,” Shouko replies, easily. She is probably already formulating the contents of her oden, with two backup plans just in case they run out of any one of her first choices.  
  
“But,” he leans in, conspiratorially.  
  
Shouko leans in, intent, hugs the cushion on her lap closer.  
  
“There’s a bakery down by the station,” Michio smiles, standing up to get his coat from his hanger. “I don’t know how it compares to the shop across Kiyose-san’s place, but I think you’ll like it.”  
  
Shouko instantly lights up, jumps to her feet, an excitement that was not unlike the one she had just five minutes earlier, rolling over to his mini fridge, utterly, wholly elated, at the prospect of food.  
  
That dream died quick, of course. The random class notes Michio puts up there instead should have been her first clue, if not the miscellaneous mismatched formulas or the complete absence of a grocery list.  
  
She got a good laugh in at the quarter cabbage and an egg, though.  
  
“Wasn’t there a grocery store on the way too?” Shouko asks, fastening her mittens, tapping the heel of her shoe against the corridor floor.  
  
“Yeah, why?” Michio clicks the door closed, double checks his lock  
  
“We should buy ingredients for tonjiru.”  
  
“Do you know how to make it?”  
  
“No.”  _Did you think Grandma would let a sixth grader by the stove?_ “But don’t you think the success rate might double with the two of us?”  
  
Michio smiles, indulgent, as he pats her on the top of her head. “Let’s start with okonomiyaki, okay?”

They need to use up that quarter cabbage somehow, anyway.

 

* * *

 

Shouko wanted his doctorate graduation to be the first time she wears her new uniform, a full month before she’s officially a student at Suhama Middle School.  
  
She had it tucked in the bottom of her bag, surprises him by coming out of the bathroom with her neckerchief already tied, walks with him, sleeves swinging, the twenty minute walk down hill to the campus grounds.  
  
It’s still a little big on her, skirt falling below her calves. Their grandmother ponders, after they’ve gathered by the auditorium, if she should have hemmed it further up, closer to her knees.  
  
Michio sees her, from up the stage during the ceremony, sitting next to their parents.  
  
The cherry blossoms in Kobe bloomed early that March.  
  
Shouko comes back to his apartment that afternoon with stray petals, gathered in the neckerchief she had taken off on their way home.

 

* * *

 

_27._

  
  
“Was it like this too when you first moved in?”  
  
His bathroom door clicks closed behind him. He can’t see that well, with his glasses left on the shelf above his wash basin, but Michio trails after Shouko’s voice. Round the corner wall, the pads of his fingertips following the wallpaper grain, he stands opposite her at the other end of his room.  
  
“Distinctly a lot less boxes,” he replies.  
  
“ _Hmm._ ” Shouko looks around, to the boxes stacked at the far edge. Blurred as she appears from where he is, Michio could see her turn towards him, her fingers playing with the blanket over her lap. “That’s actually kind of sad.”  
  
He isn’t sure, if she had meant him, or the number of belongings he had accumulated over time.  
  
“I don’t think you needed my help, in the end,” she laughs, self-conscious, hiding a huff into her shoulder.  
  
His footsteps sounds louder than it has been in a while. Each thump, tactile, more than it should be, he finds himself attentive to the five-or-so repetitions, until his slippers brush the side of his futon. Shouko’s face is much clearer from this distance – against the wall, looking up and out of his window. Michio is reminded of his first night here.  
  
He wonders, if she sees the same thing he did back then.  
  
If the lines of his face looked just as uncannily calm, caught somewhere in the beginnings of a strained smile.  
  
“I’m sorry.” It’s a good place to start as any. He sits down, next to her, knocks their shoulders together, softly.  
  
Maybe this was what he wanted to say, amongst the crowd, under the bus stop, two centimetres short from being toe-to-toe to a Shouko who, in turn, probably doesn’t remember that day’s Michio.  
  
There’s little point in saying this now, after all this time – especially when he’s going away.  
  
_Further―_  
  
_Again―_  
  
_But, still―_  
  
“I’ve never been much of an older sibling to you.”  
  
_Still―_  
  
“You’re… really going this time, huh?”  
  
“I’m sorry,” he says, no matter how many times more he needs to.  
  
Shouko exhales, long, stuttered. Slumping backwards, loose-limbed and sprawled against his side, she lets her hair fall over Michio’s shoulder.  
  
“You don’t have to― I mean― _wow!_ Oniichan! A _teacher!_ ” She begins drawing idle shapes, over her thighs, the dips in the blanket. She doesn’t look at him. Michio could see a peek of a pout, from over the top of her head. “You’ve always wanted this, huh?”  
  
“Yeah.” He traces the same path with his fingers, awkward, arrhythmic, skittering behind hers at a pace slower, a little too whimsical for him to emulate.  
  
“I can’t _not_ be happy for you.” Two flickering figure eights, under Michio’s palm, over his knuckle. “It’s just that, looking at you, kinda makes me wonder, if I should have started to want something by now.”  
  
Shouko’s finger tumbles away, a line across the blanket, her arm limp at her side. She heaves a breath.  
  
“And Tokyo is so _far_.” Pulling her knees to her chest, as she curls in, closer.  
  
Tucked away somewhere, in the shared corner between the two of them, Michio comes to understand, that a part of Shouko feels like she needs to go faster, a distance greater, more than she needs to.  
  
He waits a while, picks at the loose strands of his bedding.  
  
“Didn’t you say you’ll come visit?” _It wouldn’t be much different than it is now._ “We’re going there tomorrow?”  
  
This is just how each of their own two centimetres have come to represent them, at this one, exact instance.  
  
A simple accumulation, naturally arriving at a point where they intersect.  
  
Tokyo and Sumoto, fifteen years, the space between their knees, lined up together. It doesn’t make up for all the times before, this far along, but Michio doesn’t think that that was exactly what she had asked.  
  
“Three years isn’t a lot of time,” she says, finally.  
  
_Ah―_  
  
_Has it already reached that point, where it starts to feel that way for her, too?_  
  
Three years shouldn’t have to feel the same way for her as it does for him. Shouko shouldn’t have to feel the significance of three years weighing over her. At least, not yet. Not any time soon.  
  
He doesn’t have the right to say otherwise, though. He remembers the sunlit porch back home, hydrangeas, averting his eyes, away from their grandmother’s knowing smile, down, those same words ghosting over the tips of his toes.  
  
“In three years, I’ll be in high school, and then, it’s only another three years after that that I’d graduate,” muffled into the material of her pyjama pants. She continues, quiet, “I’m not you.”  
  
“You don’t have to be.”  
  
Larger than his own insecurities, his availability as a brother, is the dread, knowing that one day, he would indirectly place a very specific kind of pressure on Shouko, just by virtue of being born earlier. She would, at some point, feel that she would need to have herself straining on tiptoes, stretching herself tall only to stand next to him.  
  
Inevitable as it may be, he hadn’t wanted Shouko to force herself.  
  
He hadn’t wanted to actually say that she didn’t need to be anything else but her, as time would allow, relative to herself.  
  
He had hoped, that he wouldn’t have needed to.  
  
His fears have taken shape now, real, into the air for the both of them to hear.  
  
“I know,” she murmurs. Then, after a few moments, “At least, enough to not waste three years chasing after your shadow.”  
  
Shouko tilts her head, rests her cheek over a knee. She starts playing her fingers again. “But, is three years enough for me to be, you know, me?”  
  
“It could be.” Michio considers his sentiment, slow, like he isn’t quite sure, either. His voice comes out a little airy, partly obscured by the curled hand he brings up to his lips. “But it doesn’t have to be.”  
  
She stays there, looking over her shoulder, facing him in full.  
  
The most Michio could do now is to lend an ear, his thoughts, a space where Shouko could confide in him. The rest, are her own.  
  
He trusts her.  
  
“You’re not a constant. A lot can happen in three years.” He smiles patiently, patting the patch of futon next to him as Shouko takes a few seconds, staccato in her movements, before leaning back against the wall.  
  
Her hair has grown since the last photo he’s seen of her, he notices, down past her chin, out of her usual pigtails.  
  
“I’ve gotten to know you pretty well in your first three.” The strands of her hair feels familiar, under his palm, through her tufts in her fringe.  
  
“Then I found another one different, three years after that,” he says.  
  
“Maybe,” through a yawn, this time. “You’ll get to know another you, too, when around the same time passes.”  
  
“I always look forward to see what three years means for you.” Michio tries his best to fight off sleep, but he keeps his voice firm, resolute, steadfast as he has ever been.  
  
It would be great, if he could convey it properly, for Shouko to understand.  
  
She laughs a little, light, a weight that visibly dissipates, through the crinkle in her wide grin. Michio scrunches his eyes, his nose together – the opposite of what he wanted to do, really, but he can’t seem to force his face muscles to do anything else. In lieu of his own smile, he starts swaying left and right, sleep beginning to tide him over.  
  
“Alright, you don’t need to force yourself, Oniichan,” Shouko manages from in-between bubbles of laughter. She taps him gently on his cheek, twice, and then guides him down on to the futon. “Bedtime.”  
  
Michio reckons that in his old age, his internal body clock is a lot less willing to compromise, now. He lets his sister take the side by the wall, as he ends up partly on the floor. She tugs the lights off, padding over to make herself comfortable under the covers.  
  
“Hey, Oniichan?” he hears Shouko say.  
  
Michio can’t tell how long it takes him for him to reply. He blinks out the dark spots behind his eyelids, the ceiling, what could have been minutes spent drifting off, in and out of sleep. “Yeah?”  
  
“Good night,” she whispers.  
  
“Good night,” he says in return.  
  
“Oh, and Oniichan?” He thinks he might have already wandered into a dream. Her voice sounds far, cotton-covered, a disconnect.  
  
“Hmm?” He hears rustling, from somewhere next to him. Quiet, for a while, then Shouko, chuckling.  
  
“I’m proud of you.” He turns on his pillow, catches the vague lines in Shouko’s silhouette, her blanket pulled up to her nose. “I’m glad you’re my brother.”

 

* * *

 

He hasn’t feel this nervous in a while, if ever. His palms are cold, sweaty. He keeps missing the keys in his pocket, grabs same the candy wrapper each time, ten times, instead.  
  
“Are you okay?”  
  
Michio can’t see why he wouldn’t be. Three stories taller than his apartment, five, than his old home. There’s a whole cityscape he doesn’t recognise at his back. The door in front of him is iron green, without a name plate over the bell buzzer.  
  
He breathes easy, finally, when he hooks his fingers around the keyring.  
  
“Oh, actually, wait! Oniichan, give me the key!” Shouko brightens, when he turns to look at her, he hands tight around the straps of her backpack. She’s bouncing on the balls of her feet, shifting her weight from side to side, to an arbitrary beat as she hums, cheerful. “I want to try something.”  
  
“Sure?”  
  
It must be the aftermath of playing the tuba in her middle school’s marching band for the past year. Michio certainly doesn’t remember him being that athletic at her age, moreover the considerable weight she has been carrying around.  
  
She’s already bolting for the door, finds it in her to close it in his face, too, by the time he comes to. Michio stares at the remnants of a whirlwind on the top of his palm.  
  
“Count to ten before you come in okay?” she says, muted, through the door.  
  
He does, because there isn’t any reason not to. That, and also because he likes indulging his little sister.  
  
So he closes his eyes, inhales, counts to the slow draw of air.  
  
_One, two…_  
  
It’s four in the afternoon, in a residential area outside of the city. He hears more, than he would back in Kansai – more than a handful of footsteps down the road, the bustle of the day coming to an end, voices, thrumming.  
  
The train station is fairly near, as well, a few blocks behind his building.  
  
_...three, four―_  
  
He feels faint rumbling, across the corridor floor, under his shoes, wiggles his toes in response. He’s going to have to get used to that. And some while longer, for it to become white noise, into the night.  
  
― _five, six, seven―_  
  
His fingers finds frayed ends, fiddling with the tassels on his scarf.  
  
― _eight..._  
  
He still has it folded over his arm, hadn’t really bothered to put it back on since he had taken it off in the bus, but March in Tokyo is actually pretty cold, now that he thinks about it, more so than it is in Awajishima.  
  
Kobe might be slightly colder.  
  
He’s not quite sure, yet.  
  
Early mornings out power walking against the direction of the wind trying to catch the bus isn’t really a fair comparison.  
  
_...nine―_  
  
“Ten,” Michio says, raises the back of his hand to his door. Softly, he raps his knuckle against the cold matte surface.  
  
“I’m home,” for the first time again, the click of the handle, hinges creaking, swinging open, the spring of his new genkan under his feet.  
  
Almost like feedback, he immediately hears Shouko pattering over, rounding the corner, an empty room’s echo. She skids a few centimetres on her socks, her big toothy smile unwavering, even through a small stumble.  
  
She leans forward, her hands behind her back.  
  
“Welcome home, Oniichan!”

 

* * *

  

“So, you get scared too?” Shouko asks.   
  
Michio is only one futon down and a whole moving truck away to being settled in, disregarding the empty cups of instant noodles in the faraway corner. The movers are scheduled to arrive with his boxes tomorrow morning, around after the time it takes for him to get back from sending Shouko off at the Shinjuku Bus Terminal.  
  
He had the foresight to have the electricity set up today, though, so they wouldn’t have to spend the night in the cold and in the dark.  
  
“All the time,” he admits, not quite looking at her. He smiles, through folding the empty convenience store bag into a triangle. “This would be my first time being this far away from our family, after all.”  
  
“ _Huhh...”_ Shouko rocks back in her seat, kicks her legs out above her as she mulls over the thought. “I’m not sure if I’m surprised or not...”  
  
“I’m afraid I’m not as perfect as I try to be.”  
  
“I don’t think you necessarily have to be?”  
  
Michio looks up from his origami plastic packet, catches his sister with her arms flopped out, spread along the length of the futon.  
  
“That applies to you too,” he says.  
  
She stretches her legs up, up, straining, pointed toes. Michio hears the humour in her voice, though, as she starts air cycling.  
  
“I know.”

 

* * *

 

Shouko pouts, reading her ticket stub. She pinches it harder between her thumbs out of spite.  
  
“It took you the same amount of time to get here.” Michio frowns disapprovingly.  
  
“I had you to talk to for nine hours!” Rude and untrue. Michio remembers being asleep for most of that ride, but doesn’t refute her. He suppresses a chortle, seeing her brows furrowed, cheeks puffed out, red, as far as they could go.  
  
She sighs, releasing a breath, steady, slow. Michio counts to ten to her exhale, notices her drumming her fingers to the same count, around the strap of her backpack. Down to her pinky, up, from her thumb.  
  
“Tokyo really is far, huh?” she says again, after a few beats, deliberate.  
  
“You’re here, aren’t you?” He barely hears himself, over the bus pulling over, the terminal attendant guiding the driver into parking position.  
  
“ _Heheh,_ I guess I am!” Shouko shuffles backwards, a small twirl on her heels, into the crowd now lining along the waiting benches by the low fence. She ends up halfway down the queue with enough time to spare for their goodbyes.  
  
The station attendant shouts off their destination – _Kobe, Sannomiya –_ _r_ eminds his passengers to have their tickets ready. They move one step forward.  
  
“You can come back to visit anytime you want.”  
  
“Yup! I’ll take you up on that.” Two steps, this time. Three. “I’ll be in my shiny new high school uniform and everything next time!”  
  
_One more step–_  
  
_Two more– Two–_  
  
_And–_  
  
Michio barrels forward. He hugs her, tight, around the shoulders. Shouko is six people away from boarding the bus when she pats her older brother on his back, nuzzling into the material of his jacket.  
  
“I’m going to miss you,” he says.  
  
“Me too,” quiet, warmth seeping in.  
  
There’s a lesson to be learned in keeping a comfortable distance – guidance at most, an observer at the very least – one that he’ll surely utilise come April, consistently over the next years, students whose growths he would see first-hand.  
  
He shouldn’t have to be so worried.  
  
Shouko is stronger, more so, than he realises.  
  
“I’m proud of you, too.” All of this, without him. All of this, within her reach, on her own.  
  
All this, herself, the cartographer.  
  
But for now, he’s glad. That they could stand at a height where he could be next to her, toe-to-toe, together.  
  
“I couldn’t be happier, that you’re my sister.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

_29._

  
  
He could barely hear his voice, the first time. A simple introduction, his name, the position he’s taking over for, his hand always a few seconds away from covering his mouth with his too-long lab coat sleeve.  
  
Yamashita Jirou is withdrawn, unassuming. Michio wonders how much of it is deliberate.  
  
“I look forward to working with you,” he greets him at his desk, his eyes averted, his bow curt.  
  
Michio looks up from his papers, regards Jirou for perhaps, a little while too long. He notices a small speck of pink. His eyebrows perk up, instinctively, almost, his fingers flinching.  
  
It actually takes a quite bit out of him to hold himself back. The itch up and around his wrist is near unbearable.  
  
“You have a petal stuck in your hair, Yamashita-kun,” Michio says, his hand still awkwardly hovering over a doggy-eared sheet in his papers.  
  
“Oh.” Jirou straightens up, slow, for a whole full beat, and then a tilt of his head in the next. It takes him another, to reach up to the top of his hair.  
  
He combs it free from the strands, stares at it, idly, intently, somehow in equal parts.  
  
Michio waits, patiently, for about three-four more counts – he honestly isn’t sure what for – until finally, Jirou hums, in very visibly feigned interest, holding the petal out towards him.  
  
“Have a present then, Senpai,” he says.  
  
Michio doesn’t know why he overturns his hand.  
  
“Thank you?”  
  
Nor does he know what to do with this now, either.  
  
He stays rooted, looking down at the single cherry blossom petal nestled atop his palm as if it would eventually give him answers, the longer he does.

 

* * *

 

 _A ghost, perhaps._  
  
_That’s not it, either._  
  
Yamashita Jirou disappears the moment Michio sees him, out the faculty office in the mornings, the fluttering ends of his lab coat, a messy scrawl left on the attendance sheet.  
  
He hears him, more often than he sees him. The next classroom over, a soft, constant cadence in the way he speaks.  
  
Gentle, eliciting a thrum of quiet laughter from his students.  
  
Michio looks out of the window as he sits, by the podium in his own class. Pencil scratches, paper turning behind him, whispered discussions between his students he doesn’t think to interrupt.  
  
He checks his the watch on his wrist.  
  
“Five more minutes,” he announces. “We’ll go through the answers together.”  
  
_Crystalline,_ is the closest he could think of. Translucent – transient maybe, even, sometimes – tangible, but not quite. Which is _silly_ , of course. Clicks and taps, chalk against blackboard, the third science preparation room on the second floor, the building opposite from where they are.  
  
‘ _He left the window open again.’_  
  
Leucoiums, in their last blooms, lining the windowsill. White, behind sheer curtains, through the glass, an early summer’s fog.  
  
Michio drags the sole at his toes across the linoleum floor. Closer, underneath his seat, knocking the rubber-cupped ends of his chair.  
  
“Alright, put your pencils down.”

 

* * *

 

It’s clivias, this time, bittersweet and tawn, cinnabar, day reaching its longest. Michio thinks it fits him, more so than the white of spring.  
  
A singular window at the end, furthest down the hall, a conscious distance.  
  
The most Michio sees of Jirou for the longest while is his back, vivid, flowers at the hem of his sleeves, lazy late afternoons under the shade the east wing provides. He lolls his head back, taking in the air around him, shoulders rising.  
  
Scattered echoes, cicadas, students’ voices. The sounds of summer finding their way to this narrow strip between the two school buildings.  
  
Michio stops, as well, to do the same, in the middle of the outdoor corridor, a brief respite. He looks down, to the sunlight streaming in onto the floor from between the fence grates, and his feet, right at the border.

 

* * *

 

The air conditioning in the science preparation room is broken, it seems. Michio doesn’t hide his bewilderment, eyes wide and brows raised, staring at the man at the desk opposite his, two sweaters deep in warmth and a blanket around his shoulder.  
  
Yamashita Jirou’s nose is red from the cold, voluntarily spending his afternoon in the faculty room.  
  
Michio clears his throat, a slight cough into a curled hand.  
  
“I’ve always thought this,” he tries, “but you have very deft hands, Yamashita-kun.”  
  
Jirou looks up from his lunch, shoots him with a look Michio can’t accurately decipher. Halfway between puzzlement and concern, a few shades of reluctance he tries not to show on his face. He purses his lips, goes back to sectioning clumps of rice in his bentou.  
  
“Were you looking?”  
  
_Not necessarily, no._  
  
Michio shifts his gaze to the paper cranes made out of beting tickets littered between them, the different side dishes in Jirou’s meal. There are potted plants by his binders, the same ones along his office windowsill.  
  
“I doubt I’m any more skilled than you are, Senpai,” he says.  
  
“Oh, no, all I can cook is tonjiru.” The fact that it took him ten years to reach that level isn’t something Jirou has to know. He rips open the plastic wrapping of the egg sandwich he bought from the cafeteria.  
  
“ _Hmm...”_ Jirou chews at the end of his chopsticks. “Tonjiru sounds good right about now.”

 

* * *

 

Two months to the end of the school year, it hadn’t crossed his mind that he would end up outside of the principal’s office, sliding the door closed behind him. He sighs long, winded, a breath he didn’t know he had held, as he walks down the hallway.  
  
He wasn’t being scolded. He’s well past that age. An established member of the staff on top of that, but he digress.  
  
Nevertheless, ever since they’ve fixed the heating in the science preparation room, the only signs of life he sees from the space in front of him from then on is the occasional quilt, haphazardly thrown over the seat back, and coffee rings stamped over the surface of the desk.  
  
He’s at the bottom of the stairs when sighs, again, for good measure.  
  
He wouldn’t have minded usually, but as it is Jirou’s first year, the principal had originally expected Michio to guide him on the ins-and-outs of their school.  
  
It’s a little too late for that, he supposes. Their third years have all gone already, out on their graduation trips, or preparing to move into their new apartment rooms, away from their parents and closer to the universities they’ve been accepted in.  
  
He pauses, as he passes under the one of main building’s exits, taps one feet behind the other.  
  
Jirou did an admirable job, in Michio’s own personal opinion. He hasn’t been in-charge of a whole class as a homeroom teacher yet, but it’s clear that a lot of his students already trusts him. It isn’t rare that Michio would see one or two students shout for Jirou, all the way across the hall, whenever he happens to be in the east wing’s second floor.  
  
They already have a nickname for him, even. ‘ _Yama-chan-sensei,’_ or just plain ‘ _Jirou-chan,’_ depending on whom you ask.  
  
Michio stares at the auditorium opposite the grounds, shivers, realising that he’s been standing outside, by the connecting walkway for quite a while.  
  
_Alright, Tokyo is definitely not as cold as Kobe,_ is his final verdict, a conclusion drawn while only in his usual long sleeves and waistcoat, socks, under his indoor sandals. He sneezes, once, shuffles back in before more decides to follow.

 

* * *

 

Serene, dense with greenery, uphill and away from the busier side of the school.  
  
“Ah, Senpai.”  
  
A mosaic, spread out over his outdoor sandals, the midday sun peeking in from between the trees, Jirou looks up at him, nonchalant, from where he had tucked himself away, behind a corner wall.  
  
He has his lab coat laid over his lap, sloppily tied together, just enough to not brush against the dirt while he crouches down.  
  
It seems that Jirou has already discerned an adequate amount of their school’s nooks and crannies on his own. Splendidly so, Michio might add, considering that this might be most remote places he could think of.  
  
He didn’t think he would chance upon Jirou and his second hideout at all, two days later. He was just here to investigate a strange rustling noise he had heard, while on his way to the storage building out back.  
  
“Good afternoon,” Jirou says.  
  
Michio hadn’t the time to reply. Stops, when hears that same rustle again, this time accompanied by something else – a soft coo, a purr, almost.  
  
He closes his mouth, partway open, looks down.  
  
_A cat._ Jirou has been keeping _a cat._  
  
The stray pops its head out from behind Jirou’s leg, meows, very cutely, in greeting. Michio notices a small metallic glint after that, from what he now sees is an opened can of cat food Jirou’s hip.  
  
Yamashita Jirou has not been letting Michio do his job.  
  
Not a year in, and Yamashita Jirou is well on his way to gathering a colony of cats by their school’s incinerator.  
  
In short, Yamashita Jirou, despite his outward looks, is shaping up to be a handful.  
  
It is, however, also the first time Michio sees him smile, no matter how sheepishly, guilt, scratching his cheek, a deflection he would have expected to hear from one of his students.  
  
“Did― Did you need me for something?”

 

* * *

  

_30._

  
  
He stands out. Bright, as he faces the morning sun, head on, through the window panes.  
  
“Good morning!” he begins.  
  
At the front of room, by the entrance, in between the pink tinted tips, a refraction of the light catching at his smile, the cherry trees outside still early in their buds. The newest member of their faculty is young, a little odd, blinding, almost, as he introduces himself.  
  
“My name is Maita Rui! It’s nice to meet you!”  
  
Michio spares a glance, over the row of binders separating his desk from Jirou’s. He had anticipated the jolt of shoulders, Jirou subtly recoiling in his seat, but he didn’t think that Jirou would also, just as equally unsubtly, squint, as if shielding his eyes.  
  
He sends him a warning glare, reminds him to _not be rude, Yamashita-kun,_ to which, of course, he was promptly ignored. Jirou probably didn’t even think to notice him, locked in place as he is.  
  
_Has he always shown this much on his face?_  
  
Michio remembers Jirou to be much more taciturn, if only by cautious guard.  
  
“I’ll be in your care from today onwards!” Rui bows deep, eager, springs back upright to immediately scan the room. He holds a hand over his forehead, smiles infinitely wider, when his gaze lands on Jirou. “I’ve been told my desk is next to yours, Mister Yamashita! I hope we can get along!”  
  
Jirou whimpers, a pitiful squeak at the back of his throat. Michio doesn’t know if he should mention that he could also very clearly see that his eyebrows are twitching.

 

* * *

 

“ _Twenty-one?!_ ”  
  
Michio whips his head, too, turning to shoot a sharp look at Rui next to him, astonished, matching the rest of class.  
  
“Yup!” he sticks his tongue out, knocking himself lightly on the side of the head as he laughs.  
  
“Did you lie on your resume?!” someone shouts from the back.  
  
“How did you forge your birth certificate, Sensei?” another adds.  
  
Michio is initially here just to introduce Rui to the third years, along with the kids in his homeroom, as Rui was appointed Michio’s assistant homeroom teacher, to help him faster adjust to his responsibilities. He didn’t think he’d have to end orientation by reporting Rui to HR.  
  
“Don’t bully!” Rui pouts. “I’m a legitimate graduate! It’s just that I just graduated like, a month ago.”  
  
Michio sighs in relief. _Thank goodness._  
  
It’s not his job specifically, but he doesn’t know how their school would manage if they have to go without English teacher until they could find a replacement.  
  
“ _No way!”_  
  
“You immediately got accepted for a job?!”  
  
“Where did you graduate from?”  
  
A barrel of questions Michio doesn’t quite know how to keep up with, but amiably nods along. He’s pleasantly surprised – new teachers tend to receive very trivial, and sometimes inappropriate questions more often than not.  
  
This is good. Rui is doing good.  
  
The change of pace is pretty refreshing. Surely stories of Rui’s achievements would be very motivational.  
  
Rui hums, rocking on the balls of his feet, merrily keeping the class, and Michio, by extension, in suspense. He twirls on his spot, a piroutte and a flourish, finishes with his palm stretched open, high above his head.  
  
“Waseda!” like sunshine itself, a naive, innocent smile of someone who could not have possibly predicted the absolute chaos that ensues in response.  
  
Michio is well in his own rights to be stunned, he feels, frozen, an ache at the side of his neck after the second time that day he has to double-take.

 

* * *

 

Recently, Michio has caught sight of Jirou in the most peculiar places.  
  
Dazed, standing still, staring through windows, between buildings, his eyes chasing after something that has already gone, rounding out the corridor.  
  
_Curious._ Jirou is notoriously difficult to find, determined to participate in the longest ongoing game of hide and seek that he could maintain, spanning throughout different batches of students. Michio could confidently say that he can count on one hand, the amount of times he actually encounters him anywhere outside of the science preparation room, by pure coincidence, without actively looking for him.  
  
Yet, this isn’t the first time.  
  
He increasingly finds him, during break, after school, sometimes, while moving his potted plants, holding them close to himself.  
  
It’s the last day of lessons, today, officially, before welcoming the summer holidays. Jirou stands outside, by the adjacent wall from where Michio pokes his head out of a third floor window.  
  
There are sunflowers, in front of him, a row of pots outwards from the corner.  
  
He waves, a little blankly, slow, hesitant, at someone Michio can’t see, the window the next building over.  
  
He lingers, for a few moments longer.

 

* * *

 

Oh―  
  
Michio is on his way to the east wing when he sees Jirou, looking out of his office window. Actually, genuinely, looking out, and not just sitting at the windowsill, with his back to the world.  
  
He’s resting his head, cheek nestled on folded arms. His fingers swings freely, a rhythm to a hum Michio can’t hear.  
  
He thinks he could catch a glimpse of the tennis court from Jirou’s vantage point, follows his gaze, to a sun-stained glimmer of yellow. Rui – he gathers. Rui, as he joins the tennis club for practice, during their summer training camp.  
  
Rui, squeezing his eyes, as the wind blows against his face.  
  
Jirou, a candid point-second before he hides his face, again, his fringe blowing back behind his ears, and, _oh―_  
  
_Ohhh._  
  
_Jirou has been looking at Rui._  
  
Michio searches his pocket for his phone, brisk, thumbing past the lock screen, flicking through the apps in rapid speed.  
  
‘ _I better not catch you replying to this immediately,’_ he types, doesn’t know why he had expected otherwise, when already, instantly, he sees his message marked as read, but continues anyway, ‘ _You still have class.’_  
  
Summer holidays starts later in Kansai than it does in Tokyo. It goes on for longer, too, because of the climate. He hasn’t been gone _that_ long to forget.  
  
‘ _Lol,’_ Shouko replies, followed by a sticker.  
  
He sighs, pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. ‘ _Do you think we can call tonight? I might need some advice.’_  
  
Shouko sends him a kaomoji, the meaning of which he does not comprehend. _‘I don’t know what kind of advice I could give to my older brother, but sure,’_ a thumbs up sticker, _‘I have club today, though, so I’ll call after dinner.’'_

 

* * *

 

“So, what do you need help with?”  
  
Michio misses this, hearing the Kansai twang in someone’s voice, the thrums of his family from the living room in the background through the speakers. He also hears the whistle of their kitchen’s running tap, a lot closer, ceramic clinks, Shouko while washing the dishes.  
  
He leans out his apartment balcony, revels in the familiarity, the cool summer evening, as he readjusts the way he holds his phone to his ear.  
  
“I need love advice, if you will?” Silence, a crackle of static. Michio hopes that sudden clatter didn’t result in a broken plate.  
  
“ _Ehhh?!_ ” she shouts.  
  
“Don’t be rude,” he furrows his brows, covers a hand over his pout, never mind that she can’t see him. “Is it really that odd?”  
  
“ _Yes!!!”_ a pitch higher.  
  
“Don’t be rude,” he says again, stays quiet, contemplating on how to continue. “Although, you are right that it isn’t for me.”  
  
It seems natural, as a teacher, that one day, he would have to offer relationship guidance. No one had come to him with those specific worries yet, though, and he doesn’t even know where to begin explaining to his sister that this isn’t about a love-struck student but, rather, his two  _colleagues._  
  
Predictably, she starts laughing.  
  
Michio doesn’t blame her.

 

* * *

 

“See you tomorrow then, Michael-sensei!”  
  
He steps into the foyer at the tail end of a wave goodbye, a student with a familiar red umbrella walking backwards out of the main entrance.  
  
“Take care on your way home!” He’s dazzling, still, despite weather. Not only in colour, but his presence, in his own way, comforting, in the middle of a more or less empty school front, past the shoes lockers, late afternoon during the holidays.  
  
Michio wouldn’t dismiss the likelihood that Maita Rui is his own sunny day.  
  
“Are you not going home, Maita-kun?” he asks, frowns, as he looks down to his hand, discovering that the tip of his own folding umbrella has caught onto something in the inside of his bag. He tries to wiggle it free.  
  
“Oh, Mister Hazama! Good work today!” Rui laces his fingers behind his back, swings one leg out, a pivot, faces Michio fully in a half-turn. “Miss Yonezawa forgot her umbrella, unfortunately. So I lent her mine.”  
  
It doesn’t look like the rain would let up any time soon, and yet, “I think, I’ll just wait out here.”  
  
He looks away, from a point in the distance, somewhere behind Michio, back to the sky, grey, outside of the bubble the overhang gives them.  
  
“Or run, I guess,” he laughs, uncharacteristically timid. “I don’t live that far from here.”  
  
“Will you be okay?”  _Jirou lives nearby too,_  if he recalls correctly. And he should still be in his office.  _It shouldn’t be too much trouble for him to send Rui home first, if they happen to live in the same general area._  
  
“I wouldn’t want to impose!” Rui says, frantically waving his hands around in front of him. Michio is glad, that if anything, he seems to have regained his usual spark, somehow. He smiles, as he hops around him, steer Michio from behind, out of the entrance by his shoulders.   
  
The florescent lights above their heads flickers, softly, his shoes toeing the edge of the tiled steps.  
  
“I’ll be fine,” the hazy quality to Rui’s voice doesn’t go unnoticed, though, nor does the way he trails off, sneaking a few peeks, expectant, towards the bend that leads to the corridor.  
  
“Really,” airy, less self-assured, than what he’s used to, “I promise”

 

* * *

 

Rui pauses. He puts his hands down with his lunch on to his desk, back up to his mouth, then down again. Michio sets his identical package of bread aside, tilts his head.  
  
“I wonder if Mister Yamashita doesn’t like me.”  
  
The seat next to him is empty, as it would be. Nothing out of the ordinary, just now serving mostly as storage for the props Rui (and to some extent, Michio, a direct influence of much cajoling) uses for his class. Jirou came over once, a few days ago, to switch out his rotation of lap blankets, scrunches the bridge of his nose at the state of his desk, but otherwise, besides wordlessly reorganising his things into another corner, does nothing else.  
  
“I don’t think that’s the case?” Michio returns to his meal, mulls over what could have happened for Rui to have that impression.  
  
Jirou is kind, patient and compassionate. He’s unsociable, but never intentionally rude. He’s also unfortunately terribly slovenly, but that’s Michio nitpicking.  
  
He chews on his milk bread, waits for Rui to elaborate.  
  
“I can never find him, though!” Rui whines, crinkling the plastic wrapper tight in his grip.  
  
Michio hums, nods, in complete understanding. “I don’t think anyone could, really.” _It’s still a challenge to him, most of the time._  
  
“ _Wow!_ Is he like a cat!” Rui might have forgotten that he’s still holding his lunch, nearly splotches his cheek with a dollop of jam as he brings his hands to his face. “Oh, _whoops_ ,” after he realises, collecting himself, checking if he hadn’t smeared anything on his blazer sleeve.  
  
Michio flicks his eyes above Rui’s head, at the notice board on far wall behind him, notes the freshly printed-and-photocopied poster the principal had the staff put up everywhere all around school.  
  
_Please do not feed the cats within school premises,_ it says.  
  
“You wouldn’t be wrong,” he shrugs.  
  
He sees Rui’s expression slip, a millisecond latency, the edge of his mouth held taut, stutters through catching himself before he moves to shuffle his feet, instead, under his desk.  
  
Michio sighs, mimics the rhythm Rui sets, runs the underside of his shoe along the a line in the tiles.  
  
“I wouldn’t worry though,” he says, thinks of Jirou’s lopsided smile, mornings too early, a little giddy, his messenger bag still slung over his shoulder, a new pot cradled gingerly in his lab coat.  
  
It’s a little before their school cultural festival. Autumn in Tokyo does not carry the scent of osmanthuses.  
  
He hears one of their students practice for their piano recital, in the music room a floor above them, at end of the hall.  
  
“If you say so,” Rui sighs, defeated, through a bite of his bread.  
  
Sunflowers, easily comes to mind, when he thinks of Rui, but Jirou seems to think him something else. Smaller, precious, giving way to an autumn sow – yellow pansies, a spring bloom.

 

* * *

 

“Are― are you sure they’re not dating already?” Shouko whispers furtively, makes a show of hiding her mouth behind her mittens. “You’re not the sharpest person when it comes to these things, Oniichan.”  
  
Michio doesn’t know how they’ve ended up standing around in a snow shower in the streets of Nakano, watching two of his colleagues from a distance during Shouko’s winter break. He swears they were just here for pancake at a small corner shop one of his students had recommended him.  
  
“Fairly sure.” He twirls their shared umbrella over their heads.  
  
They’re a fair distance away across the road, considerably safe from any accusations of following anyone on their not-dates on the off chance they get found out, but also terrifyingly far, for Shouko to discern them as Jirou and Rui in the first place.  
  
If he’s not mistaken, hasn’t shown her more than the one selfie Rui had taken on Michio’s phone, a group selfie during their last sports festival.  
  
He looks up, again, while ushering Shoko off to the side, making way for the actual, walking pedestrians. Rui is standing on the tip of his toes, as he leans closer to Jirou, walking sideways along his side.  
  
_Ah._  
  
_Okay, fair._  
  
“You...” Shouko says, slow, brows furrowing, nose scrunching. “Have your work cut out for you.”  
  
Jirou pinches the bridge of Rui’s nose, lightly, to put some distance between them. Michio can’t hear them, but he could already imagine the exact way Rui would yelp, from the way he hops away, laughing.  
  
“But,” Shouko’s expression softens, after seeing Jirou offer one half of the grocery bag to Rui, for them to hold together between them. “I think they’ll be alright.”  
  
Michio offers nothing in reply, hums, as he thumbs the handle of their umbrella. They turn, finally, walking the opposite way down the road.  
  
A significant part of someone’s growth comes, mostly, when nobody is looking. Out of sight, build upon a snail’s pace, at their own relative measure of time.  
  
It was a little like this with Shouko before, too, he thinks.  
  
He trusts her  
  
He should should trust his friends, too.

 

* * *

 

_31._

  
  
Rui’s second spring as a teacher finds Michio with his fifth, and Jirou’s third.  
  
Cherry blossoms are in full bloom again, on the day of another entrance ceremony.  
  
He stands below Jirou’s window, right where his feet have brought him, under a drizzle of petals, all throughout the school grounds, down a narrow strip in the school grounds, here, where the sounds of spring comes to converge.  
  
The third science preparation room is the same as always, sheer curtains drawn open, tied at the ends, flowering pots of pansies and clivias at the windowsill. Michio waves, at a sleepy Jirou, smiles when he receives one in return, chuckles, when he sees Rui pops in from the side, waving back at him as well.

 

* * *

 

“Are you not too patronising?” Michio asks, the shade of Jirou’s office, summer creeping in, the air conditioning whirring for its life, a proper cup-and-not-beaker of tea nestled on his lap.  
  
“Ah, you mean Rui?” He’s avoidant, more than usual, sets aside the papers he had been grading, plays with his fingers. Jirou flits his eyes up to one side, then the other, settles on ducking his head, slightly, looking downwards at his feet.  
  
“Rui is just Rui, I guess?” he says, small, fond, tapping the side of his socked toes together.  
  
Michio turns Jirou’s words over in his head, his eyebrows furrowing further the deeper he goes in thought. He turns to look at him, head tilted, fingers curled over his mouth. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”  
  
“Would you like a nickname too, Senpai?” Jirou beams. He bounces, once, pointedly, in his seat. Michio tries not sigh in complete exasperation.  
  
At least, not visibly.  
  
In his mind, he’s shaking his head, concentrated disapproval practically oozing out, a density rivalling mercury’s. It’s best not to press further, anyway.  
  
Knowing Jirou, it’s unlikely that he’ll even get a straight answer.  
  
“Am I not just ‘Hazama-senpai’?” he asks, in turn, a teasing lilt in his voice that no one else but his sister so far, seems to be able to detect. He wouldn’t be disappointed, if Jirou couldn’t, either, concedes to himself that it might end up little less than a private joke.  
  
“I mean, _yes..._ ” Jirou starts swivelling in his chair for a bit, drums his fingers along the rim of his coffee beaker. Michio is rather taken aback, by how seriously Jirou seems to take this. He hums clear, honestly thoughtful, looks back at Michio with the same kind of soft, adoring smile he has seen countless times before.  
  
_Not quite at him._  
  
“How about ‘Hazama-san’?” he decides.  
  
“Doesn’t that put more of a distance?” Michio doesn’t bother stopping himself from pouting.  
  
“I really like you, you know, Hazama-san?” Jirou laughs. _It’s odd, because it’s something he knows he wouldn’t say to Rui._  
  
He thinks he could see the exact moment he thinks about him, too, his arm outstretched over his desk, to the pansies, in its last blooms on the windowsill, the clivias, taking in the sun.  
  
“I think, I’ve come to like orange a lot.” He still hides half his face, his hair down past the side of his chin. That part of him wont change anytime soon, Michio thinks, but it’s fine.  
  
He’s fine.  
  
Jirou doesn’t have to change if he doesn’t want to.  
  
“Thank you so much, for everything, Hazama-san.”  
  
But what Jirou fails to realise is that he has, already, a lot.  
  
He plucks one clivia off the bud, plays with his hair, the wayward strands behind his ear, as he waits for Michio to overturn his palm, just as he did, that first spring.

 

* * *

 

Michio double checks the sign above the station building.  
  
Which is redundant, of course. He couldn’t have ended up anywhere else but Seibu-Yagisawa, out his apartment building and two blocks to the south.  
  
Not Shinjuku. But he starts to wonder if he should be.  
  
Shouko shouldn’t arrive until five more minutes or so, but Michio can’t help it. He checks his phone, for the second time that minute, patters around on one spot on the pavement.  
  
It’s getting a little colder, earlier than usual, if only because the wind has been a little stronger  
  
He hopes Shouko had the forethought to bring a jacket. Tall as she may be now, any of his own would still drown her, the hem pooling around her ankles.  
  
He really, _really,_ should’ve just picked her up a the station, he feels. That way, at least, he could see her the moment the bus pulls over.  
  
He’d get yelled at, though.  
  
‘ _It’s just one line from Shinjuku, Oniichan,’_ she’d say, almost too real, from memory.  
  
‘ _It doesn’t even have transfers, Oniichan,’_ or even, ‘ _I know how to ride the train, Oniichan, come on!’ and ‘Let me do this one thing? I’ll have my phone if I’m not sure of anything?’_  
  
Michio perks up, to the sound of a beep, tapping off from the station gates.  
  
“Oniichan!”  
  
He feels like he’s seen this before – a new home away from theirs, his sister running up to him, her expression a mirror of his. Her giant backpack is ever present, a Shouko staple at this point, each time Michio meets her for the first time after a while.  
  
She isn’t fidgeting at a bus stop, her knuckles aren’t white around her backpack strap, her shoes are new, without the scratch and scuffles he’d find from the same nervous habit they share.  
  
Sumoto Highschool had changed their uniform at some point after his graduation, because his sister isn’t sporting a sailor uniform – none of the black skirt and white-lined collar he remembers his classmates would wear, but a more modern short-sleeved shirt and knit vest combo.  
  
Their ties are still red though, just that it’s a ribbon, instead of a neckerchief.  
  
“I hope you haven’t been carrying that all day since school,” Michio says, for what seemed to be far too long since he had last spoken in Kansaiben.  
  
“Yes, I’m  _fine,_  Oniichan,” Shouko replies accordingly, laughs, as she tries to wriggle away, from Michio’s hand trying to latch on to her backpack’s handle loop, again. “My trip was  _lovely,_  Oniichan. How have  _you_ been?”  
  
“Ah, yes, I’m sorry,” he chuckles, scratching the side of his cheek. “I found a croquette shop on my way here earlier, I hope your bag isn’t too heavy for a little detour first?”  
  
“Croquettes!” she cheers, throwing her hands high over her head. She brings them down, halfway, fists aligned to her low pigtails. Michio thinks she might be flexing, a little, too. “I have sousaphone wielding shoulders now, I should be fine!”  
  
He misses this – the ease and comfort of a laugh, late afternoons unhurried, walking home, roads often crossed, the sound of someone’s footsteps matching his.  
  
Shouko’s might run a hair’s breadth faster that his, now. Ninety-nine, one-hundred-one, oscillating, in between. His is much steadier, reaching a constant at a ninety beats per minute.  
  
She stops, looks back, each time she goes a little too far ahead, over stoplight beeps, train crossings, the afternoon passing them over, the cat under the art room stairs, how long it takes for her to tie her hair in the mornings.  
  
She fills the space between them, as she waits.  
  
Her feet keeps pattering in place, still, each time she does.

 

 

 

* * *

 

  

_32._

  
  
_Blue._  
  
_Blue,_ like spring.  
  
_Blue,_ like the colours on his banners, the penlights the producer had picked out for him.  
  
He’s is standing at the edge of a wide, wide expanse, a guiding path, a starting line – a harbour, stretching out far, from under his feet.  
  
Irises, in full bloom.  
  
“You see,” he remembers his grandmother’s voice, holding that same blue, in a knitted blanket close to her heart. “I wanted her to be called Shouko, written with kanji for the Japanese Iris.”  
  
Viscerally, each fold, each crease under her thumbs, the wrinkles running down her wrist.  
  
“I love them just as they are, of course,” she had said. “But, Michio-kun, did you know?”  
  
Michio is fifteen again, in his grandmother’s garden in Awajishima. He could almost feel his toenails brushing against the steppingstone again, the gravel under the pads of his feet.  
  
The weight that grounds him settles, palpable, almost, cradled in his arms.  
  
‘ _Irises mean hope, a sign that happiness will surely come.’_  
  
“I hope you’ll take care of me too, Shouko.”

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Shouko「菖子」from the Japanese Iris 「菖蒲」  
>  _Hope,_  
>  _Happiness will surely come,_  
>  _Passion,_ in the Japanese Flower Language.


End file.
